


and outside // winter's so cold

by keeplovinanyway



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, Flashbacks, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Hurt/Comfort, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-28
Updated: 2018-09-28
Packaged: 2019-07-18 18:10:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16123958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keeplovinanyway/pseuds/keeplovinanyway
Summary: Hermione, back in her eighth year of Hogwarts, has trouble focusing. On studies, on herself- because there's always the thoughts of the war. And perhaps there's also someone she shouldn't be, but still is, developing a crush for.





	and outside // winter's so cold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [moepchenswelt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moepchenswelt/gifts).



> written for my girlfriend, who needs more Hermione/McGonagall fanfic. I really enjoyed writing something so differently to what I normally write, especially a f/f ship. 
> 
> title taken from [By your side](https://newfoundland.bandcamp.com/track/by-your-side) by New Found Land

It happened in the middle of class – of course it was –, that Hermione started to hear those screams that she‘d come to recognize as her own and felt agony flash all across her body. Professor McGonagall was talking about something that was surely incredibly important for the N.E.W.T.s, and Hermione _needed_ to take notes because if she wanted to get a high enough grade there was really no time for these  constant flashbacks. So she did what she always did, always had had to do in the past few years – she grit her teeth and kept going.

It wasn’t exactly… easy, to concentrate on Professor McGonagall’s explanations on  Conjuration when there was a constant background noise of Bellatrix Lestrange’s shouts and laughs to them, or when her fingers cramped as hard around her  Quill as they did when she was being tortured on the floor of Malfoy Manor. 

She’d not come  back to school for relaxation though, hadn’t she? She had come here because she wanted to make a difference in the world  and because she needed proper education for that. Because she wanted to do good and be good.

Hermione let herself look out the window for just a moment. She didn’t dare close her eyes, despite how  much she wanted to. But she knew that if she did, her flashbacks would just get that much more intense. So she watched the owls  glide in and out of the  o wlery in front of the classroom window, balled her hands into fists and relaxed them again and tried to focus on Professor McGonagall’s voice. 

Perhaps she’d also come back for this. For the structure, the normality of it all. For this world in which she knew how to excel and how to function. Where she didn’t have to figure out how to lead her life all by herself yet, where exams and studying was what she could focus on.

Where life still was what it used to be, before– before everything.

If  only she were able to focus  on it . Hermione let out a sigh – the tiniest, that she was sure nobody would have heard – and turned back to the front of the classroom. With a start, she locked eyes with Professor McGonagall, who had apparently been watching her as she’d cited from  A Guide to Advanced Transfiguration . She didn’t immediately look away. She kept  searching Hermione’ s gaze , standing there upright and tough and impressive as usual in front of her students, with  her bright green eyes s o intent and attentive that there was no hiding away from it,  even if one wanted to.

For some reason,  Hermione felt the urge to burst into tears. 

Her cheeks were hot by the time Professor McGonagall shifted her gaze to the other side of the classroom, and her heart was pounding in her chest.

She hated this. Hated, hated, hated this. All she wanted to do was focus on school, on this one thing she’d always been able to do without question. And now even her favorite teacher knew something was off. And instead of being simply embarrassed about that, there were all these other feelings, this sadness and anxiety and hurt and this bloody urge to _talk_ about it. It was almost Christmas, for Merlin’s sake, she needed to study and not keep dwelling on the past that only held her back.

Bellatrix Lestrange kept shouting in her head and Hermione kept hurting, but for the rest of the lesson, she held her head up high and listened and took notes.

Because if the war would take even that away from her – what really did she have left?

~

That night, when Hermione dreamed (like usual) of the horrors she'd had to endure during the war, all of a sudden Professor McGonagall was by her side, wielding her wand and shouting like she did during the great battle for Hogwarts. Hermione just stood and watched, as she attacked Death Eaters with a fierce look on her face, her slender body in front of Hermione, shielding her.

When the Professor turned back towards Hermione, her eyes green and shiny and fuller of worry than Hermione had ever seen them in real life, there was nothing left to do but feel save.

~

The thing was... those feelings weren't new, were they? Hermione had been nine when she'd first felt this starry-eyed for her friend's older sister. Clara had been her name. She'd had a car and a gorgeous shine on her dark skin and she'd always asked Hermione how she was feeling, and Hermione always told her.

Clara had had a lisp, and for some reason Hermione had been entranced by it. She tried having a lisp herself, just to see how it felt, and it felt amazing, but it never made her light up inside like it did when Clara spoke like that.

So when Hermione woke up one morning with green behind her eyelids and a heart full of... something, she only pulled her duvet back up over her unruly mess of hair and hugged her knees to her chest.

Professor McGonagall. Really, Hermione?

~

 _Really, Hermione,_ she thought again, back in class with the Professor showing them the proper stance for the transfiguration they were about to learn. It wasn't the first time Hermione noticed how pretty she truly was, but it was the first time she noticed herself noticing.

But it wasn't just that, was it? There was a lot more than just her beauty, actually. There was the way Hermione felt alone, a lot of the time, alone and hung up with the past. Many people probably felt that, but no one really talked about it - especially not with Hermione, who'd done her very best to keep herself buried in her books since she'd come back.

And not everyone's torture had been quite as hard, but Professor McGonagall had seen a lot of the things Hermione had seen. Most importantly, she'd seen Hermione during the war, and knew about at least some of what she still agonized over.

Hermione let the quill smooth over her cheek; a comforting gesture she'd adopted back in first year, when everything had been so new and scary. The fluffy feather tickled her nose and she scrunched her nose up.

She was just... so tired. She was constantly so bloody tired.

And Professor McGonagall was there, like she'd always been, and she saw Hermione, like she always had.

"Who would like to demonstrate - Miss Granger, yes?"

As Hermione walked to the front of the class, she felt Professor McGonagall's gaze on her. She concentrated, took care of proper stance and eyes straight ahead of her. The movement was complicated but she'd practiced, and the incantation rolled swiftly of her tongue.

"Well done, Miss Granger."

Professor McGonagall touched her hand to Hermione's elbow. Hermione wanted to fall right back into her arms.

"A bit farther to your side, like this. Excellent. You can go back to your seat. Class, turn to page 5203."

After she’d scooted back into the safety of her Cushion Charmed class chair, Hermione thought that perhaps a little bit of a distraction wasn't actually the worst, and how, perhaps, she should have looked up from her books just a bit earlier.

~

Sometimes, the world sort of just... broke down around Hermione.

Or, perhaps, it was more that she broke down on the world.

Either way, she found herself at the lake, sitting on the by far too cold ground, fingers stiff and prickling from the November air. It was dark, and Hermione didn't go out in the dark.

She didn't know how long she'd been sat there, or how she had come down here in the first place. Or when, or why. The last thing she remembered was doing her homework right after lunch time.

Sometimes these blackout times happened, since the war.

Hermione patted down her side where her wand was stored, relieved to find it there.

"Tempus", she murmured. The time appeared in front of her, as if imprinted into the air. It was nearing dinner time. She'd missed Defence Against The Dark Arts (which, frankly, not much new to learn there), and Transfiguration.

And it was dark.

She shivered, tucked her wand back into its sheath and got up.

She was scared. Her skin itched with a fear ingrained from all those months on the run, where it had never been safe to be out like this, unprotected.

Hermione almost never felt safe anymore.

The ground was rocky beneath her feet as she marched on upwards. She hugged her arms tightly around herself, fingers anchoring on her wand beneath her cloak.

Last night, she'd dreamed of Professor McGonagall again. It had been a new kind of dream. No Death Eaters to fight, no danger to prevent. Minerva McGonagall had simply held Hermione to her chest, warm and strong and comforting. And they'd talked. Hermione hadn't remembered about what when she'd woken up, but she knew that they had talked about everything there was to talk about.

What would it be like to have the Professor find her now, distraught and shivering and not nearly as put together as she appeared in class? She imagined her asking, talking to Hermione, having her listen and pay attention and be there. _Miss Granger,_ she'd say, _you should have told me_. _Would you like to join me for a cup of tea? I have been meaning to talk with you about your experiences. I know you must have seen a lot._

 _Of course,_ Hermione would say, and she felt her heart beating hard inside her chest, _your guidance would mean a lot to me-_

And what if they hugged then? And so what, if she imagined what McGonagall's breasts would feel like against her own chest? Nobody was likely to Legilimens her, so who were these thoughts really to harm?

The brass animals on the heavy wooden entrance door recognized Hermione and opened for her. The entrance hall was lit with flickering candles and Hermione could hear voices in the Great Hall. Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington (as Hermione had thoroughly trained herself to think of Nearly Headless Nick) floated a few stairs up ahead.

Hermione let out a breath. Hogwarts was safe.

So what, if she used her daydreams to escape? So what if this was some weird crush situated somewhere between protection and care-taking and actual attraction, confusing and wonderful all at the same time?

"Hermione," someone said. It was Draco, whom Hermione had unexpectedly formed a solid friendship with in the few months since eighth year started. "Where were you? I almost went and searched for you."

"How lovely," she said, arms relaxing down by her side and words dipped in subtle sarcasm, "that you almost searched. Good to know you care."

Draco scoffed fakely and then smiled.

“Are you coming to eat?"

Everything was safe in Hogwarts.

~

Everything was safe in Hogwarts, except Hermione from her own thoughts.

It was some ungodly hour in the middle of the night where the common room was tinged in blue and orange, soothing to the mind. Hermione sat in one of these big armchairs by the fireplace that was softly glimmering at this time of night. The glow of coal and wood reminded her of the months in the woods of England, campfires alight almost every night to protect them against the cold, no one around but her and Ron and Harry. Her and Ron and Harry and the fear that had found a home in their bones.

She'd not even slept yet. She tried to - of course she'd tried. Sometimes sleep would be a relief, taking the anxious prickle on her skin away from her and letting her rest.

Tonight was not one of those nights. She'd tossed and turned in bed, mind flashing to images and voices she so desperately wanted to forget. When she'd dozed away for a couple of minutes, she'd found herself back at the Manor yet again. The stone had felt real beneath her back, hard and so freezing cold. She always wondered why she remembered the temperature the most, when there had surely been worse things she endured in that moment.

So... she'd come down here when she’d woken up, the Gryffindor common room, where there were soft colors and armchairs and blankets. Where it was cozy and safe and nothing like she remembered the Manor being. And yet, she still felt as though she'd fit better back into this place with the large ceilings and dark corners and the feeling as if there were constantly eyes on you judging, constantly being watched-

Maybe she shouldn't have heard it, lost in thoughts like she was, but Hermione instantly tensed when she heard a murmur by the portrait of the Fat Lady and quiet footsteps just around the corner. But then again, the alertness had ingrained herself into her very self, and she never was simply relaxed anymore in any given situation.

She rested her hand on her wand again, fingers curling around it. Logically, no one coming in here should be a threat, but- well, logic seemed to fail Hermione more often than not recently.

The figure stepping around the corner, slim and upright and in nothing but a dressing gown, was Professor McGonagall.

"Oh," Hermione said, eloquently.

Professor McGonagall looked up, surprise clearly written across her features before she schooled her expression into something neutral.

"Miss Granger," she said. "Should you not be asleep?"

Perhaps it was the late hour, or it was all the thoughts Hermione had indulged in where there were considerably less boundaries between the two of them, that made her say, "I could ask you the same, Professor."

It felt like the air around them bounced a little before it settled, somewhat happily, when Professor McGonagall fought down a smile that was threatening to escape.

It was different now, between them, Hermione had found. Fighting by each other's side in the war had let strange bonds grew between students and teachers. Many of them weren't so much children being taught by adults now - it felt more like people were talking to each other, experts handing down expertise to others they respected. There was a mutual level of understanding that hadn't been there before, when everything was still a bit more normal. Hermione didn't think that it was just their higher age that had made this be.

"Would you like to sit down?" She asked. There was an armchair to her right, the orange one with the scratches on the wood.

The Professor looked at her for a moment, before she, graciously, walked over to the armchair. She flicked her wand that Hermione hadn't noticed being there before and lit the fire in the chimney before she sat down, her arms coming down to rest on her knees.

Hermione pressed her lips together to fight down a smile. She herself was properly cuddled into the armchair, which her former self would have been ashamed of being seen by by any teacher.

She wondered what kind of picture they made, teacher and student sat in an empty common room by night, only illuminated by the fire and the pale light of the moon coming in through the windows. The portraits were sleeping and so was probably everyone else but the two of them, sat there staring at the fire, one cuddled down and the other with an elegant tension that seemed to never leave her body, not even clad in nightwear.

"Thank you for the fire," Hermione murmured.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Minerva McGonagall nod her head once in acknowledgment.

"You are welcome," she said eventually. Her voice was quiet. Hermione had never heard her speak this softly before.

She wondered why Professor McGonagall couldn't sleep, and why she’d come up here to the common room.

The fire was crackling softly.

"Fires remind me of when Harry, Ron and I were hiding to find the Horcruxes," Hermione said.

Professor McGonagall turned her head to look at her. She didn't say anything, but her eyes were green and Hermione could see the fire flickering in them. Her heart thumped hard, just once.

She turned her gaze back to the fire.

"I can't stop thinking of it. All of it, I-" Hermione paused and swallowed. She shouldn't be saying this, should she? They weren't as close as she wanted to believe.

"I can not stop thinking either," Professor McGonagall said. Her voice was even quieter than it had been before. Hermione watched her close her eyes for a moment. When she opened them again, they looked sad and young and hesitant. "I imagine, that is why we both are sitting here."

Hermione nodded. Her chest felt heavy and she hugged her arms around herself even more.

"Can I tell you something?"

The Professor smiled at her, just a little. Hermione's stomach felt warm. Perhaps she was dreaming after all. She felt like she could say anything right now.

"I don't feel like myself anymore."

Hermione took a breath to steady herself. Two ladies on a portrait, her age perhaps, had awoken on the wall and watched her speak.

"I always- I always felt like I could control what was happening with me. It is me, after all, and I am the one who should have a say in how my life goes. But ever since-" she hesitated. "Ever since all that happened, I have no control over where my thoughts go. I hate it."

The ladies on the wall sighed sadly and hugged each other. Hermione wished she was one of them. She did not dare to look at the Professor.

Suddenly she felt slender fingers on her shoulder and jumped a little. Professor McGonagall had reached out and touched her gently, but she moved back at Hermione's reaction.

"I apologize, I didn't mean to scare you. Miss Granger, the war controlled all of our lives. You should not be so hard on yourself. We all have to learn how to be the people we were changed to be.”

Hermione watched the flames flicker.

“I used to like learning, but with this lesson, I feel like I am failing it.”

There was no response for a while. When Hermione looked at Professor McGonagall, her expression was lost.

“Professor?”

She looked at Hermione in surprise.

“Oh. I do apologize. I was just- Miss Granger, I trust you will keep this conversation to yourself?”

“Of course, I wouldn’t think of it.”

“I have been coming here every night, ever since the school year started. I lost students to the war. Not just some, but many. I was supposed to keep you all safe and sound and I failed. I-" Her voice faltered as if it would break if she said just a word more. Hermione ached for her.

"I have the bravest students I know, but the bravest students get themselves in danger. Every time one of them hurts, I feel responsible. Coming here...- coming here makes me feel like I am doing what I should have done before."

“Professor!” Hermione said, her heart beating and beating and beating. She moved in her chair to sit right at the edge of the seat, turned towards Professor McGonagall. Her fingers itched to place a hand on her back, but she only squeezed them between her legs to keep from reaching out.

“We would not be here if it weren't for you. I would not be here if you had not been here and taught us everything that you did. I'm missing everyone we lost, Merlin knows I do. But you made us to people who are fighting for what is right and without that, many more would be suffering or had died.”

The Professor looked at her. Hermione thought her eyes were gleaming more than before, perhaps with unshed tears, but she couldn't be sure.

"Thank you, Miss Granger. That is kind of you to say." She dropped her gaze down toward her own folded hands in her lap. She looked so out of place sitting in this place where Hermione only ever saw fellow students, but something about it felt terribly right. Hermione realized that the Professor had once sat in these rooms as a student herself. Tonight, she could picture it almost too well.

For a while, the two of them sat and breathed the same air. Hermione’s heart did not stop thumping in her chest. She would not have dreamed to ever be talking to Minerva McGonagall like this.

When one of them spoke up again, it was the Professor.

"I noticed you are having a hard time."

Oh. So she had seen her.

"I know, my grades are- I am sorry-"

"Miss Granger, this is not about your grades. In fact, I have thought for a while about how to talk to you about this. You are distraught, and you are acting as if you were not. You are a courageous and brilliant young lady, but you will not have the success you wish to have if you look past what you need as a person. I am your Headmistress. I am here to care for all of you, not just for your studies. If you wish to talk to me about what plagues your mind, you can knock on my door any time."

Hermione felt her cheeks burn hotly and she fought to keep her head up high.

"I will, Professor McGonagall," she said.

The Professor nodded again.

"Thank you, Miss Granger. For sitting down with me." She looked like she wanted to say more, but then she only pushed herself out of the armchair as elegantly as no one else ever could have been doing. "Good night."

"Good night," Hermione replied. She watched the Professor walk across the wide space of the common room and around the corner and listened closely until she heard the Fat Lady thump quietly back into her place.

Had this been real? It almost felt like one of these daydreams she had been having so often, only that her daydreams often escalated into... something else, whether it was her telling Professor McGonagall of all that bothered her in embarrassing detail, or those things she reserved for quiet nights alone in her bed.

Although she felt a bit silly doing it, Hermione collected her blanket into her arms and moved over to the orange arm chair. She sat down on the seat where it was still warm. The fire still crackled in the chimney. So it had been real, then.

For a while Hermione just sat there, looking into the flames. She let the conversation play black in her head, remembered the green of Professor McGonagall's eyes as she watched her talk. She had felt so safe - exhilarated and nervous, but secure and protected as well.

She hadn't felt like she could trust someone with her feelings for a while.

Eventually, Hermione wrapped herself in the blanket again, flicked her wand to extinguish the fire and walked over towards the stairs up to the girls' room.

Minerva McGonagall had sat next to Hermione in the dark, had listened to her and known about her troubles, and she'd even confided in her with her own feelings. Hermione felt her stomach bubble with giddiness and took a moment in front of the door to the beds to grin and squeeze the blanket around herself in happiness.

It had been a while since she felt so light.

She was so glad she had come back to Hogwarts.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a Kudos and perhaps even a Comment if you liked it! 
> 
> (Every time I get an e-mail for a comment I got on a fic, my heart jumps around so widely in my chest. You'll probably make my day.)


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